


the lesser of a beautiful man

by thefullkamski



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anxiety, Character Development, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Hank and Connor are in a relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, Violence, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, and also EMT craig, because gavin reed is emotionally stunted, but it's very mild, it's horrible and i can't believe i've done this, protective hank and connor, these tags are a mess help, tw: gavin POV, what i'm saying is there's feelings involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16818184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefullkamski/pseuds/thefullkamski
Summary: Gavin asks where they're going. Hank shrugs, says “home” and looks to the side where Connor's still standing, hands folded behind his back, head tilted down, clearly fighting a smile.Connor catches Gavin's eye, looks at him steadily for a moment, tilts his head towards the car and gets in, and apparently that's that.So he walks, Hank not far behind.





	the lesser of a beautiful man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Octobig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobig/gifts).



> hey guys! i thought the fandom was very lacking in hankconvin and i'm 100% there for it  
> (as long as we cover our ears and chant LALALALA while pretending canon!gavin never happened)
> 
> big shout-out to [octobig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobig/pseuds/Octobig) who basically wrote the ending because i was Stuck As Fuck and also because they're wonderful thanks bro
> 
> EDIT: bonesbubs did a fantastic drawing based on this fic, come check it out [HERE](https://twitter.com/bonesbubs/status/1069699083365953537)

Gavin crashes at their house sometimes, when a case was rough and his own apartment feels too quiet and empty.

It's weirdly nice to sleep on their old couch, lumpy cushions digging into his side and all the usual ambient sounds of a home like a numbing balm on his frayed nerves. The knowledge that there are other people around, even when they're in another room. Little things to keep him grounded.

Sometimes, when Gavin's brain is too fucking loud for him to get any sleep, Connor stays up with him. They watch shitty reality TV and add their own snarky commentary about the over-acting and the drama –Connor does exaggerated but spot-on imitations that leave him laughing way too loud– until Gavin finally falls asleep and wakes up in the morning with the TV turned down to a whisper and a blanket mysteriously draped over him.

Sometimes, when the case takes an especially violent turn and there are family members to contact and a lot of emotions to deal with, Connor prefers to retreat into standby while Hank and Gavin stay up, usually with a few beers and some good old fashioned companionable silence dotted with discrete side looks. They watch Die Hard on loop and laugh at Bruce Willis' hair pre-baldspot.

One time they're all so bone-achingly tired that they all stumble through a vague nightly routine and all collapse haphazardly into Hank and Connor's king-sized bed.

Gavin sulks for days afterwards and tells himself that it was a freak accident and that it probably won't happen again, because it was weird to begin with and it would be even weirder to make it A Thing. None of them bring it up, probably sensing that fragile balance, the unspoken barrier.

And then it happens again. They still don't talk about it.

But it happens again.

And again.

It gets to a point where it feels almost natural to find himself in pitch darkness (except for the faint blue glow from Connor's LED-- Gavin refuses to admit he's starting to find it comforting), curled up on his side, hugging the edge of the mattress with his back pressed against either Hank's or Connor's. Little touches, not enough to feel stifling, just enough that he doesn't feel so crushingly alone. He usually falls asleep before they do, lulled by the soft sound of their quiet conversation.

It's nice? It's definitely better than complete silence.

Mostly he sleeps like the dead, waking up only to stumble to take a piss around 5am and face-planting back onto the bed while Hank grumbles sleepily to stop moving so damn much, fuck, and Connor lets out a long-suffering sigh, nuzzling further into Hank's shoulder.

Other times, albeit more rarely, he has nightmares.

The first time it happens, he wakes up with a start, propped up on his elbows, drenched in sweat and tears in his eyes, blood boiling in his veins, his body telling him to run and hide. Connor wordlessly gets up to fetch him a glass of water and Hank gives him a sympathetic look from his spot on the bed that says _it's okay, I get them too,_ and it's all too considerate, too much, and it makes Gavin want to hit something or cry –maybe both–, so he hops off the bed instead and ambles away on shaky legs to finish his night on the couch. Look at all that self-control. His precinct-appointed therapist would be so proud. Pat yourself on the back, you fucking piece of shit.

Morning comes and he still hasn't slept and when Connor sits next to him and gently asks him if he'd like to talk about last night, Gavin jumps to his feet and shouts insults in his general direction and stalks out of the house.

He doesn't acknowledge either of them for a few days after that.

And then Gavin gets injured.

Technically it was in the line of duty, but mostly it was him heroically (stupidly) rushing a perp who's about to swing a baseball bat at the back of Hank's head. Gavin manages to deflect the blow enough that it misses Hank entirely, but the perp is surprisingly agile and aims a weaker blow to Gavin's ribs instead– which isn't to say it's not devastatingly painful. It feels like getting hit by a fucking sledgehammer and the pain of it reverberates through his torso, all the air forced out of his lungs. He stumbles head-first into a nearby wall, clutching at it with one hand, vision swimming.

By the time he manages to suck in a desperate breath and the world stops spinning alarmingly around him, he sees that Hank has the perp pinned down with a knee to the back and Connor is efficiently cuffing him, voice gone cold and flat while he reads the perp his rights.

Backup arrives a few minutes later, along with an ambulance. Gavin, like the complete disaster he is, puts on a tough-guy act and pretends he's just fine, thank you very much, until Hank pointedly pokes his ribs and he nearly collapses on the spot, so he concedes and goes to sit in the back of the ambulance van. An EMT has a look at him, takes his vitals and declares that he has two broken ribs and severe contusions on the left side of his body and that he should probably be more careful or whatever.

While he pretends to listen to the EMT instructing him to take it easy for a few days, he spots Hank and Connor standing a few feet away– they're not hugging, not quite, but Connor has an arm looped around Hank's and Hank is leaning into Connor's shoulder. They look good together, like they fit, natural and easy in a way that makes Gavin's throat constrict, unwelcome.

He's not sure if he stares for a long time or just for a second, but then Connor turns his head, stares right back at him.

And listen, he's not gonna say that time grinds to a halt or anything like that. He's not gonna describe it as a connection he can't sever, because that's not what this is. He's not gonna prattle on and on about how Hank looking back and forth between the two of them feels like a circuit that's been completed. He's not gonna admit that both of them turning their full attention towards him makes him want to vibrate out of his skin, makes him want to bolt, makes him want to nestle between them, makes him want to fight them both and win, makes him want to fight them both and _lose_ , makes him feel–

He's not gonna do that because it's dumb, and Gavin's not dumb, he's smart, he's a detective, not a fucking poet. Basically they all stare at each other and he has no idea what to do about that.

The EMT informs him he might also have a mild concussion, but fuck that guy.

He clears Gavin after that (not for duty though– looks like he'll be playing desk-jockey until his ribs stop making him feel like there are hot knives wedged into his lungs) so he finally tears his eyes away from the happy couple, gingerly lowers himself from the back of the ambulance, grabs his jacket and starts hobbling away.

Hank intercepts him almost instantly, “uh-uh, nope”s at him and steers him around by the shoulders towards his piece of shit car. Gavin tiredly goes along with it until he spots Connor waiting for them by the driver's side door, and that startles him enough that he actual stops walking, planting his feet into the ground. He expects Hank to bitch about that –as per fucking usual– but instead he lifts his hands off Gavin's shoulders and takes half a step back, looking down at him in a patient sort of way, like he's waiting for Gavin's brain to catch up.

While Gavin's brain mostly screams at him about how Hank is very big and how Connor's got that goddamned _mouth_ , it does eventually catch up.

He mumbles something about being tired and fuck you and wanting to go home, Hank levels him _a look_ and tells him EMT Craig clearly said he shouldn't be alone for the next 24 hours at least you fucking imbecile, Gavin asks who the hell EMT Craig is, Hank rolls his eyes and tells him he would know had he been paying more attention, to which Gavin replies by gesturing vaguely at his own head with his middle finger and Hank gets this twitch in his eye that signals he's just about done.

Gavin asks where they're going. Hank shrugs, says “home” and looks to the side where Connor's still standing, hands folded behind his back, head tilted down, clearly fighting a smile.

Connor catches Gavin's eye, looks at him steadily for a moment, tilts his head towards the car and gets in, and apparently that's that.

So he walks, Hank not far behind.

* * *

He winds up dozing off in the backseat of Hank's public menace of a car. The leather is worn and flaked, his stubble scratches against the cracks where his cheek is smushed into the seat, it smells vaguely musty and there's a seatbelt buckle digging into his hip. It's uncomfortable as hell and it's the best thing that's happened to him all day and if anyone tried to move him right now, he would fucking kick them in the face.

Also he's not sure why Hank and Connor felt the need to throw both of their jackets over him but he certainly isn't complaining. It's pretty cozy.

Gavin spends a little while spacing out, watching the regular flicker of streetlights on the back of Hank's seat, counting the beats between them. The residual adrenaline seeps out of his body with every slow breath he lets out, his jaw finally starting to unclench. There's an odd sort of weightlessness to being buffeted by the bumps in the road, like he's a balloon billowing in the wind– he has a brief moment of wishing someone would say something, just to feel a little more grounded and a little less like he's about to float away.

As if on cue, the car makes a final turn and screeches to a stop. Gavin listens to Connor pull the parking brake and hears both their doors open and slam shut. The door by Gavin's head opens, cool early-spring air making him shiver. There's a soft touch to his shoulder.

“Detective? We're here.”

Gavin grunts, completely unwilling to get up.

“You can't sleep in here, Gavin.”

He gets the urge to be an asshole for a change, so he hikes up one of the two jacket higher until they cover half his face. His ribs twinge painfully with the movement, a sharp reminder that he shouldn't be moving anyway. He still manages a groan though, for good measure.

There's suddenly a dress shirt pressed to his face and hands slide under his shoulders and knees and he feels himself get shifted out of the car –the goddamn seatbelt buckles individually bump against his ass, son of a _bitch_ – and then he's scooped up effortlessly into wiry arms. Gavin hisses, partially because of the harsh blast of cold air, but mostly from the strain it puts on his ribs. He hugs his own chest. Problem solved.

Except he looks up and Connor's face is just above his, gazing back at him, and that's a whole other fucking problem right there. That, and the fact that he's being carried bridal-style by a guy he violently cussed out not a week ago.

He avoids the problem altogether by being fucking exhausted and dropping his head face-first onto Connor's shoulder. “Hi,” he mumbles into a very clean shirt.

“Hi,” Connor answers, sounding suspiciously amused.

There's a jostle when Connor nudges the car door shut with his hip, and they start moving towards the house, Gavin's eyes still resolutely shut. There's a slight change in temperature when they pass the front door, and the familiar smell of Hank's house –old books and dog hairs and residual cooking oil– hits him somewhere unexpectedly tender and vulnerable. Connor's arms tighten around him minutely and his eyes suddenly feel hot. And what the hell is that about, he's not gonna cry, he's an adult man, the fuck.

That feeling is mercifully interrupted by Hank whistling 'here comes the bride' from somewhere in the hallway. Gavin's mouth twists into a smirk against Connor's shoulder, trying not to feel too thankful for the break in tension. He calls (croaks) out: “Hey Anderson?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

The smile is audible in Hank's voice. “Right back at you, Reed.”

A light puff of air ruffles his hair when Connor chuckles quietly.

Gavin gets carried into the bedroom and there's a dizzying shift in direction as Connor swivels him around and sets him down, planting his ass firmly into the mattress and maintaining a steady hold on his shoulders so he doesn't topple forward. He briefly considers being offended by that, but to be fair, he _definitely_ would have wiped the floor with his entire face had it not been for that extra bit of support.

He takes a minute, trying to steady himself, eyes still closed, and wonders when the fuck he got so tired. He assumes it happened a couple all-nighters ago. The concussion probably doesn't help. Or the broken ribs. Fuck.

Something damp and vaguely fuzzy touches his forehead, so he opens his eyes to squint down at Connor, who is currently squatting between Gavin's legs and wiping his face? With a washcloth? Gavin blinks a few times, trying to determine how the hell it appeared out of the void, until he feels a solid Hank-shaped weight settles behind him, making the mattress dip enough that Gavin just gives up and sort of lets himself fall backwards. Hank catches him, of course he does, that was never in question at this point.

It is kind of weird being spooned sitting up, but Hank is sturdy and warm against his back and Gavin soaks that up like he's a lizard under a heat-lamp, eyes sliding shut again.

Broad knuckles brush his abdomen briefly and his shirt gets hiked up under his armpits and slid over his head to avoid having him raise his arms. It's chaste and efficient, it really is, but Gavin feels like being a shit anyway, so he slurs out a weak: “Listen, this is nice and all, but I don't usually put out without getting treated to dinner first.”

Neither of them take the bait, but he does get a sharp android-finger flick to the knee for his efforts and an exasperated groan from Hank.

“Reed, if you thought for a second you'd be allowed to get in bed before washing up at least a little bit,” he grouses behind him, all rumbling chest and gentle hands, fuck, “you're dead wrong.”

“I would've been fine being dumped on the couch, you assholes,” Gavin mumbles.

The washcloth wipes its way down his right arm and Connor finally pipes up, his voice pitched airy and casual. “In your current condition? I'm sure you'd find a way to roll onto the floor and lose all three of your remaining brain-cells.”

“And the couch would've been filthy. You're covered in back-alley gunk and five day old sweat and it's fucking rank.”

“Four days, Hank. Four day old sweat.”

“Fuck both of you,” Gavin replies dreamily, tilting his head back to rest on Hank's shoulder.

He's about to argue the point even further -he needs to uphold his spotless record of being a shameless asshole- but just as he goes to speak up, a broad hand, palm rough with gun calluses, splays feather-light over the blackish purple bruise on his ribs. It doesn't hurt, not really, but it makes Gavin pause with a frown and his mouth half-open.

“No.” Hank's head bows down, his jaw nudging sideways into Gavin's temple. “You saved my ass and got yourself hurt,” he says softly, voice pitched low. “You're not sleeping on the couch.”

Gavin clicks his mouth shut and looks down at Connor for support. Connor raises an eyebrow at him, sets the washcloth to the side, unbuttons Gavin's pants and slides them off in one smooth motion. By the time his brain actually catches up and he starts blurting out random expletives (but mostly it goes along the lines of “hey hey hey hey”), his legs are lifted onto the bed and Hank scoots him up the bed until his head hits a pillow. He shoots a glare at Connor and he smirks back at him, the absolute shithead. Gavin is suddenly very, _very_ glad he decided to wear boxers today.

He figures getting thoroughly manhandled means the end of that discussion though, so he just mumbles something vaguely assenting and stares at the ceiling while Connor and Hank shuffle around the room, presumably getting ready to turn in for the night.

On the other hand, this launches him straight from A _Shitton Of Touching_ and right into N _o Contact Whatsoever_ , and the contrast sends him reeling.

Because here's the thing: Gavin doesn't really do gentle contact. He's done casual sex in the past, sure, but never a serious relationship, and he's never been much of a cuddler– cuddling involves too much trust for his taste, and you never know when someone's gonna shank you in the kidney for breaching some unspoken rule. Besides, initiating casual touching would imply having someone you're close enough to, or at the very least friendly with, which he doesn't really have. That or family, most of whom are either dead or not on speaking terms with him.

And holy shit, that's a harsh fucking reality to come to terms with, made worse by the fact that it hits him out of nowhere, and his head spins with it. He vaguely registers taking in a sharp breath that expands his ribcage painfully. He screws his eyes shut. His hands clench where they're folded over his stomach. He doesn't understand how he can be in someone else's bed and still feel so utterly, crushingly alone. He feels like a fucking drama queen, a delicate flower. He exhales forcefully. There's more pain. Another breath. Keep it together Reed, god _damn_.

Cool fingers thread into his hair and he starts, like his body doesn't know if it should be bolting out the room or leaning into the touch.

“Are you in pain, detective?”

He wants to pull Connor to his chest and feel as much of him as he can. He wants to bury his face in his neck and breathe in deep. He wants to wrap himself around this fucking guy and never let go. He wants he wants he wants.

“I'm good,” he says instead, you know, like an idiot.

“The hell you are,” Hank grumbles from somewhere to his right, and something cold and dry touches his ribs, making Gavin hiss. Ice pack. “This should numb the pain some, tough guy.”

A broad hand lingers on his flank for a few seconds more than strictly necessary before pulling away again, and Gavin goes spiraling right back into _want,_ and it sucks, and he doesn't like it. (Except he does.)

And here's something he's learned about Connor: he can always tell. He always knows when Hank's about to grab another beer, he always figures out when Gavin's gonna say something inconsiderate, he always realizes when either of them needs their space. He also always notices when either of them desperately need company. He's so acutely observant that if he came up to Gavin one day and declared he could literally read minds, Gavin wouldn’t think about it twice.

So when Connor gives Hank one meaningful look across the bed and starts to settle down on Gavin's left side while Hank lies down on Gavin's right, he supposes he shouldn't be overly surprised. He still tenses up a bit (a lot, mostly because he's never slept between them before) and vaguely hope it's not too noticeable. Connor reaches to the bedside table and turns off the light.

They all lay on their backs, ramrod straight, shoulders barely touching, and a few very uncomfortable moments pass in complete silence. Gavin holds the ice pack to his ribs with one awkward elbow and tries his hardest to not reach out for either of them.

He fully expects to be the one to break first, because even without a concussion he usually can't keep his fucking mouth closed, but it's Hank who grumbles: “Okay, this is fucking ridiculous.”

Connor instantly makes a small, amused noise to his left. “Were you really expecting anything different?”

Gavin says keeps his mouth resolutely shut, because he’s still stuck in that half-daze of _pain_ and _just want to be close to someone, anyone_ – and besides, this is their territory, their conversation, and at this point he’d just be intruding.

And that's what he is though, isn't he? A trespasser in a perfectly happy couple's bed. Jesus fuck, he’s the worst. He's so fucking wound up. The elbow holding down his ice pack is also starting to feel like it's frozen solid.

There's a big sigh on his right. “I don’t know what the fuck I was expecting,” Hank mutters, and then a big hand lands on Gavin’s side, casually– square palm, broad fingers, instantly bleeding warmth into his skin.

Gavin stays dead quiet, eyes still shut, and he refuses to make a noise for fear of crossing some line, but a whoosh of air still escapes his lungs with a flustered sigh. And then Hank is shifting into him, tugging gently on his hip, obviously mindful of his ribs.

The curtain of his hair skims across Gavin’s face, tickling his cheek. The mattress dips when Hank turns, facing him fully. And Connor is there as well, right at his back, half-a-hum against his nape, and it's sudden, and it's a lot, it's fucking _overwhelming_ , it’s almost–

“So you're just gonna lie there like a sack of potatoes, huh?” Hank continues grumbling, shifting his weight again.

“He’s injured, Lieutenant,” Connor quips, the line of his nose grazing Gavin’s hairline, artificial breath skimming sensitive skin and oh _fuck_ , that’s not fair, that's not fair _at all_. “Give him some time to adjust.”

And then Connor’s arm slinks over Hank’s hand, draping across Gavin’s abdomen, and he gently removes the ice pack from under Gavin's elbow, and presses the pack against Gavin’s ribs instead, holding it in place. Nuzzles closer until his lips are resting against Gavin’s shoulder.

A kiss. Barely a ghost of it, but Gavin feels it acutely, like a burning after-image on his skin.

Their joined arms are two bands of steel criss-crossing across his body, carefully avoiding his injury, protecting him from the outside world. And Gavin has to mentally shake his head at himself for the thought, because it shouldn’t be so fucking enticing, it shouldn’t be so fucking –

Hank reaches over with his other arm, tugging Gavin’s head onto his shoulder, effectively slicing through the noise of his mind, making it screech to a halt, reducing it to barely a whisper. He's good at that.

There's a pressure building behind his eyes and Gavin feels tears, sudden and unbidden, prickle hotly behind closed eyelids. He wants to drown in this, this all-encompassing feeling of belonging, of safety, of gentle touch, offered freely. It shouldn’t feel so fucking _nice._

“Relax,” Hank murmurs, and it sounds like a suggestion more than an order, steady and rough against Gavin’s hair.

“Comfortable?” Connor asks quietly from behind him, his mouth still pressed against Gavin’s shoulder.

Gavin’s heart is doing weird flips in his chest like it's a guest star in the Cirque du fucking Soleil, and his throat is dry and raspy and tight, but he’s expected to say something right now so he should try. He's gonna try. He's gonna say _something_ , anything.

Because they’re both doing their best with whatever the fuck this is and Gavin, for once in his life, refuses to be an asshole.

“Yeah,” he manages to croak out. He shifts his weight and his body is touched by comfortable warmth with every movement. “Yeah, it’s. I’m. It’s good.” Another awkward pause. “Nice.”

Which doesn’t cover the meaning and the load and everything amazing about this situation _at all_ , and Gavin cringes internally at his complete lack of communication skills, but he decides to blame it on the pain or the lingering trauma or whatever.

It makes Connor chuckle though, and when Gavin looks up at Hank he can see the amused glint of blue eyes through the darkness, peering down at him.

“We can try that again in the mornin’,” he says around a grin, and Gavin has to push his face back into the guy's broad shoulder because he doesn’t trust himself to not stare. And damnit, longingly gazing into other people’s eyes it not a thing Detective Gavin Reed is supposed to do.

“Good night, Hank,” Connor says, tone fond and warm. “Good night, Gavin.”

Gavin’s arm shakes as he reaches over to press a hand over Connor’s arm. He’s already half-curled into Hank, so he supposes it’s fair. He just doesn’t expect Connor to kiss him, _again_ , and this time it’s less of a vague, quiet thing, less like something you could file away as a dream.

No, this time it’s a firm press of lips at the nape of his neck and Gavin might actually be dying. You know, for a change. His eyes slip shut again and he pretends he doesn’t shift back into the firm line of Connor’s body, but the press is there, right against his frame.

He can feel Connor’s smile below his ear in response.

  


**Author's Note:**

> gavin: WELL I'M GLAD THIS IS A PERFECTLY PLATONIC THING FRIENDS DO  
> gavin: NOTHING TO READ INTO HERE  
> hank:  
> connor:  
> gavin: GOSH DIDDLY LOOK THIS COMPLETE ABSENCE OF FEELINGS  
> gavin: ISN'T THIS THE BEST  
> gavin: JUST GUYS BEING DUDES  
> hank: stand back i'm gonna shoot him  
> connor: hANK NO-


End file.
